


And So the Sun Still Rises

by Scotty1609



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Also Clark is Great, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Blue Boyscout, Bisexual Bruce Wayne, Bisexual Character, Bruce Wayne is Bisexual, Clark Kent is Queer, Clark knows First Aid, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Not Robin, Established Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Feels, First Aid, Fluff and Angst, Gay Character, Hurt Dick Grayson, Light Angst, M/M, Meet the Family, Mild Blood, Pre-Robin, Queer Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:11:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scotty1609/pseuds/Scotty1609
Summary: Clark was mulling over what to do about the sound of shattering glass- whether or not to leave it for the morning- when he heard a high-pitched inhale of breath and a muffled, “Ouch!”So, with a sigh, he resigned himself to letting Bruce sleep and going downstairs to see what Richard was up to....Or else, Bruce's super-boyfriend (established) meets his super-ward (recently established).





	And So the Sun Still Rises

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [World's Finest: County Fair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623076) by [WingFeathers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingFeathers/pseuds/WingFeathers). 



> This fic is literally in my writing folder as "superbat dickie has nightmare and clark comforts him" so please enjoy exactly that.  
> I may expand on this universe, which is slightly inspired by the AMAZING "World's Finest: the Missing Issues" by WingFeathers. I will link the series to this fic.

_The sun will be rising in a few hours_ , Clark thought sadly to himself as he rested his head on the unfamiliar pillow. The silk sheets that barely covered his broad form and that of his lover's were soft, yet discomforting in that they lacked the usual feel Clark was accustomed to at his own apartment. Yet, in the enormous master bedroom of Wayne Manor, as hulking and ominous as it was- what with its walls that reached far over Clark's head and its lavishness that seemed unfitting for a measly reporter from Smallville- Clark couldn't feel more comfortable locked in the embrace of his lover.

Bruce wasn't one for cuddling unless he was asleep. Dead to the world, the man dropped all billionaire and Dark Knight pretenses and melted into Clark's arms. His head resting on Clark's shoulder, Bruce's legs were tangled in the taller man's, one arm beneath Clark's torso while the other laid lazily across their sides. Clark took it all in with a soft, private smile. Bruce's hair was disheveled in a way he would never allow it to be in good consciousness, and his breath- as it rolled across Clark's neck- smelled of his spearmint toothpaste. Clark closed his eyes, not quite tired enough to sleep, but not wanting to move until he absolutely had to.

Not being human came with several benefits of course, and Clark would never have considered his need for little sleep to be a _downfall_ , but it often made for restless nights trying not to fidget and move Bruce in a way that would awaken his sleeping lover. Clark knew that between working at Wayne Enterprise and going out at night as Gotham's Dark Knight, Bruce got little to no sleep. So it was nights like this, when- exhausted from patrol and lovemaking- Bruce finally got some shut-eye. So Clark, after sleeping his own necessary two or so hours, tried his best not to move for another three or four so Bruce could get some well-deserved rest.

The couple was relatively new to this, but Clark was already addicted to every hour he got to lay next to Bruce, tracing the older man's muscles and kissing his scars, taking in the beautiful image of his lover's pale expanses of skin that glowed in the moonlight. They spent most of their nights together nowadays. Clark would come over when Bruce was done with patrol- not needing much sleep himself and having little to do in Metropolis at night time- and they would make love and then hunker down for the night until they had to part ways in the morning, back to their individual lives that wouldn't, _couldn't,_ cross over. Clark couldn't remember the last time he had spent time with Bruce out of uniform or not during their nightly escapades. Bruce Wayne was a busy man with many responsibilities, and Batman was even more-so.

Clark bit back a heaving sigh in favor of leaving a gentle kiss to Bruce's brow. Bruce shifted a bit in his sleep, leaning into the kiss, before relaxing once more in Clark's embrace.

 _Maybe I can try to sleep a little more..._ Clark told himself, closing his eyes and getting ready to meditate and count sheep for a bit.

It was the distant cracking and shattering of glass that had the Kryptonian's eyes flashing open. The noise had been quiet enough that Bruce didn't stir, but Clark's keen ears could pick up on even the minuscule hitching of breath that followed the breaking glass, echoed by a tiny, frightened, _“Uh-oh_...”

And there was another of Bruce's responsibilities- the newest of them, actually. Clark had met Bruce's ward before- the boy was in and out of the Manor all hours of the day, not yet attending public school- but he had yet to hold any kind of conversation with the child. But he knew from Bruce that Richard was young, eight or nine, and small for his age. _“He's brilliant, Clark,”_ Bruce had raved one evening weeks earlier after a bottle of wine was split between them. _“Ahead of his grade in everything but English and Reading- and soon enough, with Alfred's tutoring, he'll be ahead on that, too.”_

Clark was intrigued by the child that could actually impress Bruce Wayne, but more-so than that, he was _intimidated_. Bruce thought so highly of Richard, even after just a short three months of living with the boy, that Clark knew any slight towards the child could mean widening the budding berth between him and Bruce. Clark didn't _blame_ Richard for his lover's distance- he could never blame a child in need- but he _did_ acknowledge that Bruce had other priorities now. And he still got to see Bruce almost every night, so he really couldn't complain much... _Well, I_ _ **could**_ _, but it wouldn't do much but distance us even further._

Clark was mulling over what to do about the sound of shattering glass- whether or not to leave it for the morning- when he heard a high-pitched inhale of breath and a muffled, _“Ouch!”_

So, with a sigh, he resigned himself to letting Bruce sleep and going downstairs to see what Richard was up to. Slowly, hesitantly, Clark disentangled his limbs from his lover's, watching momentarily with a fond smile as Bruce leeched onto a nearby pillow instead. Clark quickly dressed himself in sweats and a t-shirt, slipping on a pair of Bruce's house shoes before creeping down the creaky grand staircase of Wayne Manor and towards the kitchen.

Slivers of light filtered in between curtains, but even in the dim lighting Clark's good eyes could see the stark red that dotted the kitchen floor, intermingling with the shattered slivers of a ceramic mug. It wasn't a _lot_ of blood, per say, but the fact that there was blood at all was a bit startling. Clark peered into the kitchen and was surprised when he didn't see the child right away. Stepping over the shattered mug, Clark walked further into the kitchen. He looked under the table and inside the walk-in pantry, but couldn't find the boy. Frowning, Clark used his heat-vision to search around.

There, atop the fridge yet beneath the out-jutting wall, was Richard.

“How'd you get up there, kid?” Clark tried to sound warm when he spoke, but all his words did was drive the poor, frightened child back into the nook further. “Hey... you aren't in trouble, you know?”

Richard mumbled something, and Clark wouldn't have heard the muffled speech if not for his powers. That being said, Clark didn't recognize the language the boy was speaking in, as it certainly wasn't English. So, he took a step towards the fridge- feeling slightly guilty when Richard flinched- and reached upwards. “Hey...” Clark's voice was as quiet as he could make it for the child to still hear him. “Why don't you come on down? You're hurt, right?”

Richard sniffled.

“I can help patch you up.”

The boy didn't budge.

Clark paused and pondered a moment what to do. He didn't know much about Richard save for the fact that the child followed after Bruce like a duckling, prattling on about things such as the book Alfred was having him read or stories involving the circus he grew up in. Bruce was a _saint_ to Richard...

“...Bruce would be sad if he knew you got hurt.”

The boy tensed up.

“And he'd be sad if he knew nobody helped you.” _Actually, he'd probably be_ _ **furious**_ _over sad if he knew I left you here, alone and bleeding, but you don't need to know that._

A small sigh echoed through the kitchen before Richard was unraveling from the ball he had pressed himself into. The child's small hand reached out for the handle to the freezer, and he lowered himself- in an excellent show of upper body strength- to the floor. When he came to stand in front of Clark, the Kryptonian noticed just how _tiny_ Richard was. He was a good few inches shorter than other boys his age, and he could definitely stand to gain a few pounds. The poor thing was also shaking like a leaf in a tornado. Concerned, Clark used his x-ray vision to make sure Richard didn't have any other injuries and was relieved to see that the only thing wrong was a small cut on the boy's palm- likely from trying to pick up the shards of ceramic behind them. Still, the cut was deep enough to well up blood and seep into the boy's pajama pants- _Justice League themed_ , Clark stifled a grin- and would likely need stitches.

“Why don't you go sit at the table?” Clark suggested gently. “I think I know where Bruce and Alfred keep the first aid kit.” It was their civilian first aid kit, so it only had antiseptic and bandages rather than anything to suture a wound, but Clark was able to locate some butterfly band-aids in the kit and set them down on the table before crouching in front of where Richard sat. Sitting back against the chair, the kid's feet brushed against air as they kicked back and forth weakly. Clark, gentle as he could, took Richard's hand to inspect the wound. “This may sting, but I'll keep it quick,” he promised as he dabbed at the wound with an antiseptic cloth. Richard whimpered, sending daggers into Clark's chest at the meek noise, but sat as still as he could until Clark was done bandaging the cut.

“There,” Clark announced when he was done, sitting back and smiling. Richard didn't meet his eyes. “All better... Um... what were you trying to do?” Clark almost winced at his own words. “I mean, is there something I can help you to?”

“Need to clean up,” the child murmured, fortunately in English this time.

“Ah, yea, I can do that-”

“N-No!” Richard all but shouted, sending Clark aback. The boy's blue eyes were wide with fear. “I- I mean... I can help clean up? I don't- I made a mess.”

“Well, yea,” Clark shrugged, “but I don't want you to hurt yourself again. Trust me kid, I've got thick enough skin that I won't get hurt.” The joke meant nothing to the child, and Clark shrugged before going to grab up a broom and dustpan.

It took a few minutes to make sure he had gotten up all of the slivers of ceramic- he didn't want anyone to step on any after all- but Clark was finally able to scoop all of the pieces into the trash. When he turned back to Richard, he was quite surprised to see that the boy hadn't moved. “You okay there?”

“Hmm,” was the only response he got.

Clark cocked his head to the side as he peered at the boy. “What _was_ it you were doing down here at-” a quick look at the clock on the stove “-four thirty in the morning?”

Richard didn't answer. It was peculiar, hearing so many of Bruce's fond stories about how the child could never stop talking, and then being in the child's presence and hearing nothing but silence and a hummingbird heart of nerves. Was Richard _afraid_ of _him_? Clark had never considered himself to be intimidating- Lois and Jimmy told him often enough that he looked like a gigantic teddy bear when he bumbled around Metropolis on foot- but he _was_ a good few feet taller than Richard. The boy couldn't be more than forty inches tall or so- was that too small for his age? And why would he not be afraid of _Bruce_ \- the Dark _freaking_ Knight- but afraid of _Clark_ \- the Big Blue Boy-scout (as Bruce often _lovingly_ referred to him).

Richard had come from a boy's home, Clark knew as much from Bruce. After his family was murdered and his uncle hospitalized, the child's CPS agent had deemed the circus 'inhospitable' and instead figured that he should go to a home for thirteen to seventeen-year-olds instead. Not only was the foster parent neglectful, but some of the boys had a tendency to be violent. And Richard was a small child, recently weakened by trauma: an easy target for bullying. And bullying and abuse could utterly destroy a small child's sense of trust.

Clark would have to earn that from Richard.

The man straightened up and looked around the kitchen, noticing that there were a few things out of place: vanilla powder and a bag of chocolates spilled on the counter top, a pot on the unlit stove, an open bag of marshmallows by the sink... “Trying to make hot chocolate?”

Slowly, Richard nodded.

“Okay. I probably won't make it as good as Alfred, but I can try.”

And so, Clark set about boiling some milk with the chocolates. He didn't really know what he was doing- he mostly made cocoa out of pre-made packets at home- but Richard had gotten out enough of the ingredients that he could get the gist of it. Vanilla was sprinkled into the pot atop the melting chocolates, and boiling milk was stirred in. “Do you like cinnamon?” Clark inquired conversationally. Richard shrugged. Clark nodded. “Okay then. Tell you what- I'll fix this up like my Ma does back home, and you tell me if you like it or not. Sound good?”

Once the cocoa was poured into two different cups, Clark topped it with marshmallows, cinnamon powder, more vanilla, and a bit of chocolate drizzle. He grabbed a small bowl and dished out a handful of marshmallows, carrying it over to the table alongside the cocoas. Sliding one mug to Richard, Clark sat opposite the boy at the table and sipped at his own cocoa. “Ah,” he sigh contentedly. “Just like Ma makes it.”

“...Mama made cocoa with cinnamon,” Richard sniffled a bit, and when Clark looked at the boy, he noticed his eyes were watering. “I- I forgot. I _forgot_.”

“Richard,” Clark began slowly, “it's okay to talk about them, you know?”

The boy was silent, staring down at his chocolatey mix.

“It helps keep the memory alive,” Clark said somberly, “when we talk about them.”

“W-W-What would _you_ know?!” Richard blistered. “Your mom is _alive_! You can talk to her and- and- and you can _hold_ her and not- you can _be with her_ and I _can't_!” The boy was crying now, fat tears falling down his cheeks as his breath hitched over and over.

“I don't know _exactly_ what you're going through, Dick,” Clark tried to console the boy, “because I never really _knew_ my real parents.”

Dick's protests fell short on curious lips. He tilted his head to the side, and Clark continued.

“When I was just a baby, I was... _found_ by my parents- my Ma and Pop. I grew up thinking of them as my parents- there was nobody else _to_ think of as my parents. But then, when I became an adult, my parents gave me a- erm, well, they pointed me in the direction of some... _books_ that told me about my birth family. My mother and father, my aunt and uncle, my cousin... I was furious at first.” Clark shook his head at the memory. “I was devastated. I thought I had lost everything... my birth family. They died- were killed- like how your family was killed. I can't say I know exactly how you're feeling, Richard, because I never _really_ knew them, but it _felt_ like I did. And after knowing them, after knowing how I lost them...” Clark sighed heavily, looking deep into Richard's eyes as he said his next few words: “Even then, I can only imagine how devastating it must feel to have _lived_ with them and _loved_ them.”

Richard's tears fell anew, louder and longer than before, and he pushed away from the table to curl up into a ball on his chair. Richard rocked himself back and forth, murmuring in a language Clark didn't recognize as he tried to console himself. Clark felt his heart break for this boy; was this how Richard had consoled himself back at the house, when there was no one there who could console him, when there was no one there who _cared_ to? Was this how he handled it when he woke up in the middle of the night at the Manor and Bruce wasn't around, was on patrol, and Alfred was in bed none-the-wiser? Clark's heart nearly snapped when he caught the whimpered words, “ _Mama... Dadro... John... I_ _miss you...”_

Clark stood and went around the table until he was crouching in front of Richard for a second time that night. “Hey, kid,” Clark's warm voice tried to be gentle. “I- ah- um...” _What do kids like? Affection, right? Hugs?_ “Do you want a-”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Richard had lunged forward and wrapped his arms in a vice around the man's neck. Clark caught him easily, his “oof” only out of shock, and hugged the boy tightly to his chest. Richard sobbed and sobbed, several minutes going by where Clark had _no idea what to do._ There was so much he _could_ say: “It gets better”, or “It's gonna be okay”, or even, “Do you want me to go get Bruce?” But then, before Clark could speak, Richard interrupted his thoughts with a frail yet passionate: “ _Thank you_.”

Clark's responding, “Wha?” was a little less poetic.

“Thank you,” Richard replied, speaking into Clark's neck and wet t-shirt. “Thank you, Mr. Kent. For helping me remember.”

Clark felt his heart melt when Richard's little face rose up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Anytime, Richard.”

“Call me Dick.”

The man responded with a grin. “Then you can call me 'Clark'. Okay?”

Dick nodded, smiling through the tears. “Okay, Clark.”

“Now, whaddaya say we finish up this cocoa and then I can get us some breakfast going? It's going to be sunrise soon.”

Actually, it _was_ sunrise. Beyond the horizon, the littlest sliver of yellow sun peered in through the blinds. It illuminated just enough of the kitchen for Clark to see the bright, vibrant blue of Dick's eyes light up in excitement. Something so pure lifted Clark's spirits; he had to fight to keep from floating off the ground with Dick still in his arms. The sunlight was there, was _hopeful_ in its presence, was promising of a new and brighter yet day.

“Pancakes?” Dick inquired. “ _Please_ pancakes? Ooh! And cinnamon rolls! And cereal! Cereal is a _must_ , Clark.”

Clark threw his head back and laughed. “How about _one_ of the above, and we can add on some eggs and bacon?”

“Ooh! _Waffles_.”

“Waffles it is, kiddo.”

Clark set Dick down in his chair and ruffled the kid's hair before going back into the kitchen.

Now that the damn had broken, the water was bursting forth. Dick had an endless amount of questions for Clark: Where did he work? Did he like it? He lived in _Metropolis_? Then how did he get to _Gotham_ every night?! And since he lived in Metropolis, did he know _Superman_?

“Superman is my favorite superhero!” Dick chirped happily as he finished off his cocoa.

Clark felt his chest swell with pride. “Is that so?” _I'm sure Bruce_ _ **loves**_ _that_.

“Uh-huh. And Wonder Woman. But Wonder Woman should be _everyone's_ favorite superhero anyways, so she doesn't count.”

Clark chucked. He'd have to tell Diana that one.

Dick was going off on a tangent about something to do with Superman versus a pack of wild dinosaurs when footsteps echoed at the stairs. “Dick? Clark?” Bruce called down them. He came down the steps, followed shortly by Alfred- dressed all proper and ready for the day- and came to stop next to Clark. He hip-checked the taller man before looking out at all that had already been cooked: scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, and a large stack of waffles with more on the skillet. “What's all this?”

“I daresay I could have cooked, Mister Kent,” Alfred informed Clark as the Kryptonian nearly forced the older man to sit at the kitchen table next to Dick. “And I insist that this is not-”

“ _Please_ , Alfred?” Dick whined. “Just for this morning? You _never_ eat with us...” The child pouted deliberately this time, though the force of his emotions weren't dampened by the intention of it. “Pl _eeeease_ Alf?”

“I daresay that you mustn't pout like that, Master Dick, or your face will stick that way.”

Bruce and Clark left Alfred and Dick to their ensuing conversation, the older man draping an uncharacteristically affectionate arm over his lover's shoulders, letting his head drop beneath Clark's chin. Clark couldn't help but smile, pecking the side of Bruce's temple and murmuring, “What's this for?”

“You know what,” Bruce accused.

“Maybe I want you to say it.”

“You helped him,” Bruce said. “Don't think I don't know Dick wakes from nightmares more often than not. I want _him_ to come to _me_ though, so I don't ever do much about it. You, though, you... You're too good for me, Clark.”

The bluntness of the words took Clark aback. He looked down at Bruce, then backwards at the table where Dick was animatedly explaining something that had happened on the news with Batman recently. Alfred was nodding and listening intently, even as he prepared a plate of fresh fruits and eggs for his young Master. The sun had fully risen by then, up in the bright morning sky with birds chirping all around. The light of it shined onto Bruce's face, showing it off: all strong angles and pale skin, there was a scar on his left brow and a near-invisible one on the corner of his lips, gray eyes staring deeply at Clark with a mix of confusion and _love_.

“What?” Bruce asked.

“No,” Clark responded to the earlier statement. “No to that. I'm not too good for you, Bruce...” Clark sent another look to Dick and Alfred, then back to his lover. “ _You all_ are too good _to me_.”

Bruce huffed, shaking his head before setting about making himself and Clark plates of food. “Let's agree to disagree.”

“Of course,” Clark laughed, and the noise of it make the corner of Bruce's lips turn up. “Agree to disagree.”

And so the small, mismatched family sat down at the kitchen table and proceeded to eat their breakfasts together, happily at peace...

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope ya'll enjoyed!! Please let me know what other prompts you may have for Dickie and Clark!! :)
> 
> And thank you so much to WingFeathers for inspiring this fic! Keep up the awesome work!!


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